He fairly spat his vows. His voice grew harsher with every line that he was required to speak, whereas Muira’s, in contrast, was growing weaker and fainter. She was asked to repeat one line twice, the words being nothing more a trembling indecipherable mumble.
Muira’s body was shaking just as hard as her voice Lachlan realised when he was asked to take her hand before slipping on the ring that someone in Clan Cameron had provided. He couldn’t help but frown. Hadn’t she planned this whole charade? Wasn’t this was she wanted? Maybe she was just as trapped as him? Lachlan didn’t really see how that was possible, but something in the way that she was stood there beside him, teary and trembling, tugged at his heartstrings.
Lachlan forced his tone to soften, as he in turn was forced to speak the final words that would bind him unbreakably to Muira Cameron. Muira MacRae, Lachlan corrected himself bitterly, as he slipped the band of simply metal onto her ring finger.
When the pronouncement came that they were man and wife it was not followed by any jovial call to ‘kiss the bride’ – that was fine by Lachlan, he couldn’t imagine that anything would ever induce him to kiss the woman that was his wife!
..ooOOoo..
Muira thought she might actually be ill. Gone was all the warmth that she remembered seeing in Lachlan’s face on the first day that she’d met him – all of two days early, she remembered her herself feebly. It had been replaced by a burning anger that terrified the young woman. Well what had she expected! Muira demanded of herself. She had no right expecting Lachlan to rescue her-she certainly had no right to force his hand!
The only way out now for either of them was through death… She choked, what if he—
Muira stumbled as she walked back up the aisle. Lachlan caught her, and shot a puzzled frowned at her, which was at least an improvement on the black scowl he’d been wearing throughout the ceremony. Her heart gave a painful, guilty beat when she looked up into his beaten face. Her fault, she thought, all her fault, could she blame Lachlan if he took his freedom back by force?
No one had put much thought into organising any of the celebrations that typically followed a wedding ceremony. There hadn’t really been time, but there also hadn’t been any inclination. The Camerons were not celebrating this union. There was no large feast, no dancing, no speeches-there was a simply meal of roasted Highland beef, and then an awkward nothingness that no one seemed to quite no how to fill.
The hours wore on slowly, and Muira still hadn’t been alone with her new… husband. Lachlan hadn’t said a word to her through dinner. He ate hungrily, (she had a nastily suspicion that this was the first time he had been permitted to eat since arriving at the castle,) and completely ignored her. She couldn’t keep her eyes from drifted towards him though.
She had controlled matters up until now, she had forced their marriage, a marriage that still didn’t seem quite real, but very soon she would be at the sole mercy of Lachlan MacRae.
“You’ll need time to pack I suppose?” Lachlan said gruffly. Muira jumped when she heard his voice after such a long silence.
“T-to pack?” she stammered nervously.
“We’re leaving,” Lachlan growled. “As soon as possible.” Sitting in the seat next to his sister, Ewan tensed, Lachlan saw the reaction and shot the other man a fierce glare. “Unless you also mean to continue keeping me a prisoner here?”
“You don’t need to be leaving immediately, MacRae,” Ewan grunted.
“Oh I think I do,” Lachlan snorted in reply. He looked at Muira, a cool, calculating look, and her blood ran cold. “She could stay here though. Wait until I’m ready for her back at Eilean Donan Castle.”
“Like you’d come back for her,” James spat in disgust.
Muira drew in her breath with a sharp hiss as Lachlan turned to look at her younger brother. She was glad that they were sat far enough apart that Lachlan couldn’t reach James, because the glint in the MacRae’s eye was practically murderous. He opened his mouth to speak, but was prevented from saying anything as the Cameron Laird and his wife had just stood up, everyone else rose to their feet too.
“I know, MacRae, that this is not how either of us would have wished for this visit to conclude,” Laird Cameron sighed. “It weighs heavily on my heart.” He spared a sad smile for his niece, and Muira felt like she wanted to crawl under the table. “But young men are susceptible to temptation when it is laid in their path.” Muira could hear the grinding of Lachlan’s teeth beside her and shivered. “At least you have been willing to try and rectify your transgression in the only manner open to you. I believe you know what will happen if any harm comes to my niece-”
Muira listened silently as her uncle continued to talk, softly condemning Lachlan for a sin that was not his… She tuned out after a while, and hoped that Lachlan was able to do the same. She feared that he was taken on board ever condemnation, storing them up ready to lash them against her later.
She dipped her head to her uncle and aunt as they left the formal chamber, and then her heartbeat seemed to beat in time to the funeral march as Lachlan took her arm and led her after them, waiting for her to guide him out of the public rooms to the privacy of her chambers.
Muira didn’t know how she expected to put off the inevitable any longer, but a part of her was still hoping for some miracle-that her father or brothers would intervene, but she didn’t belong to them now.
She walked as slowly as she possibly could to her room, painfully aware of the insistent pressure of Lachlan’s hand on her arm. Was he going to snap when they were properly alone, she wondered fearfully? Would she close the door of her room and find herself shut in with a dangerous, violent warrior?
“Here,” she mumbled quietly, stopping and nodding towards the door of her room.
Lachlan didn’t say anything, so she reached for the handle, pushed open the door and stepped inside the chamber. She felt his hand leave her arm as he turned and closed the door, trapping her-just as she had trapped him? Muira drew a shaky breath and started trembling all over again.
In the cruel silence of the room she was aware of how loud her breathing was, of how fast and scared it sounded. She waited for Lachlan to speak, because somehow not hearing him say anything was actually far more frightening than if he’d immediately started yelling.
Eventually, unable to stand it any long, Muira turned around to face her husband. She opened her mouth, but no words would come out. It was impossible to speak-to think-with Lachlan staring at her so closely. He looked like he was trying to piece together a puzzle that wouldn’t fit, and getting angrier about it by the second.
“Well now, I think you owe me one rather huge explanation, don’t you, Muira?” he breathed quietly.
She didn’t know why a tremor shivered through her body at the sound of her name on his lips, but it did. She licked her own lips and tried to find an answer for him that he might accept. She’d had days to think up something, why had she gone and left it until the last moment, she panicked?
“Well?” Lachlan pressed, his voice sharper than before. He walked across to the window and lent back against the sill. “Explain.”
“Tavish t-told everyone that you’d-compromised my honour,” she mumbled, her cheeks blazing.
Lachlan snorted. “That much I know. That much I even understand,” he growled. “What I don’t understand is why you didn’t set anyone straight.”
“I tried!” Muira lied, because she was scared of what might happen if she didn’t feign innocence.
A spark of fury flashed in Lachlan’s eyes, and then he was practically on top of her, gripping her by the shoulders and shaking her as he spoke. “Liar!” he hissed. “I told you what I think of liars!” he snarled. “You might have lied to everyone else, but by God you are going to tell me the truth!” he roared, throwing her away from him and onto the bed.
Muira hit the mattress and curled in on herself, tensing her entire body as she drew her knees up to her chest and hugged them tight. She fought ba
ck tears until she just couldn’t hold them in any longer. They broke forth in loud, violent sobs.
“Don’t cry!” Lachlan barked, which only made Muira cry harder. There was a beat of stillness and silence, and then Lachlan’s hands were on her again, pulling her back up to face him. Muira shrieked at the touch, but Lachlan didn’t let go. “Tell me why you did it?” he demanded roughly, shaking her again.
“I-I was scared!” she wailed, pushing and beating at his chest, but knowing that she was utterly powerless to save herself.
It took her a full minute to realise that she wasn’t being shaken any more.
Breathlessly, Muira forced herself to look up into Lachlan’s face. He had her held so that she was knelt on the high mattress of her bed, and so their eyes, for once, were almost level. There was a great wealth of anger still bubbling and boiling beneath the surface of his eyes, Muira could see it there, but for some reason he was managing to restrain it.
“Scared of what?” Lachlan asked.
He was staring at her hard, and once again looking like he was trying to decipher some unfathomable problem. Muira found it too difficult to meet his gaze, so she dipped her head, looking instead at Lachlan’s broad chest as she bit her lip and tried to think what to say.
“Muira?” he pressed. There was a sliver of gentleness in Lachlan’s voice now, just a sliver, but it was still there, and it made Muira’s heart ache. “What were you scared of?” The hands gripping her arms hard enough to leave bruises lessened their hold a little, although she was not freed completely. “Muira, talk to me,” Lachlan commanded, and she didn’t dare refuse.
“Tavish,” she croaked. Fresh tears began falling. These were silent, but they coated her cheeks just as thoroughly as the first ones that she’d spilled.
“Tavish?” Lachlan repeated. He was ignorant of most the names of the Cameron clan, although, if he had to make an educated guess then he thought he could probably work out who this ‘Tavish’ was-and what he might have done.
“Tavish MacEantach,” Muira nodded, her voice very small and frightened. “He was my-he was my fiancé,” she said, flinching. “The man you found me with the other night,” she mumbled.
“The man who did this?” Lachlan asked, still frowning, and then to Muira’s absolute amazement he let go of her arm and brushed the backs of his fingers gently again her bruised face.
“Y-yes,” she admitted. Her skin tinged where he’d touched her.
“And worse?” he grunted.
Muira wasn’t entirely certain that she understood what he meant, but she nodded her head anyway; as far as she was concerned Tavish had done much, much worse that strike her across the face. A growl seemed to have lodged itself in Lachlan’s throat. She peeped up at him timidly. He opened his mouth, but then shut it again, only to reopen it a second later.
“Your brothers? They knew this?” he asked harshly.
Muira winced and quickly shook her head. She thought of what Tavish had said the morning she’d run away. “Tavish h-he would have convinced them it was my fault,” she stammered. “He’s so good at twisting things-at getting what he wants,” she whispered.
“He didn’t get you,” Lachlan said, with what almost looked like a smirk, but by the time Muira had blinked it was gone. “They would have believed you, Muira,” he sighed. She started to shake her head, but he continued. “It’s obvious how much they love you-”
“But the disgrace,” Muira blurted, and Lachlan fell momentarily silent, and then stared at her with those piercing eyes that seemed to see straight into her soul.
“Well, what makes you think you’ll be any better off with me?”
It was a question, but also a challenge, and Muira didn’t know how to answer. She wasn’t sure that she even knew the answer. Why had she chosen him over Tavish - because he’d saved her, and she felt something for him that she couldn’t explain, or simply because he was her only other option?
“I don’t know,” she whispered honestly. She shook her head. “Everything seemed to just… spiral out of control so quickly,” she frowned sadly, and then slumped when Lachlan let go of her arms.
“Aye, lass, it did that,” he sighed heavily, stepping away from the bed and wandering back to the window.
I’m sorry, was on the tip of Muira’s tongue, but for some reason she couldn’t push the words out passed her teeth. She watched Lachlan silently instead, watched the way he braced one arm against the wall as he looked out over the castle grounds, the way his other hand was dragged distractedly through his dark, wavy hair – they were unfamiliar little gestures, but they were very strangely comforting.
Every move that Lachlan made hinted at the power coiled in his muscles, just waiting to be released, and yet at the same time there was an air of great control about him, of an underlying gentleness that intrigued Muira to no end. She rubbed her sore arms however. It was probably wiser not to get carried away with that wistful fancy.
“Are we really going back to Eilean Donan?” she asked quietly.
Lachlan didn’t turn, but he did answer. “Of course,” he murmured. “You do know that we have to, Muira?” he asked firmly, watching her reflection in the glass.
She nodded. “I know, I just-” she broke off. She couldn’t complain. She didn’t have a right to complain. “I suppose I should start packing then.”
Lachlan gave a stern, silent nod. “Call for one of the kitchen lads as well,” he instructed. “I’d like to take a bath.”
..ooOOoo..
Lachlan gave a loud groan of relief as he sank his bruised and aching muscles into the hot, steaming water of the tin bath. Fortunately, Muira’s bedroom had a separate adjoining room, a small space that housed a washstand and commode, and which afforded Lachlan some privacy. Muira had started to mutter something about usually bathing in front of the fire where it was warm, when he had directed the kitchen boy to move and fill the tub in there, but a single glance from him had been enough to colour cheeks and glue her tongue to the roof of her mouth.
He was still finding it difficult to believe that this was all real-that he was a married man.
Lachlan picked up a sliver of soap that he’d found in the washstand and began to lather it between his hands. Maybe he’d feel more human if only he could feel clean again? He washed himself distractedly though, dragging his hands over his body while his mind stayed firmly in the other room with his… wife.
Muira wasn’t vindictive. He didn’t believe that she was deliberately manipulative by nature. She’d been trapped and scared, and, unfortunately for him, she had seen him as her only means of escape. Lachlan sighed heavily, wondering what exactly he was meant to do now.
He’d always known he would take a wife, but it had been the in the same sort of way that he knew he’d one day have children-there had been a distance attached to the knowledge. He hadn’t imagined marrying for love, but he had thought they would be a level of mutual attraction and understanding.
Well, Muira was attractive, he considered, but she was also a Cameron, and besides a woman who’d been raped and abused was hardly going to make him a willing bedfellow.
It was all such a mess!
Lachlan pulled himself out of the tub, winced, and reached for a towel to drape around his waist, sighing with some irritation when he realised that his clothes had been taken away for washing.
“Muira?” he called wearily. Why did everything have to be so complicated? “You wouldn’t happened to have some clean clothes for me, would you?” Lachlan sighed, not really expecting for one second the answer to be yes.
He was expecting some answer though, so when he was met with nothing but silence he pushed open the door that led into the bedroom.
There was no one there. Lachlan couldn’t account for the way his heart lurched. His first fear was that Muira had run away again, just as she had been doing the day that they’d met-but she had her prize, she had him now, there was nothing for her to run from. Lachlan’s second thought was even worse
than the first. Tavish. Could the other man have snatched Muira from the room while he was bathing?
Lachlan was just scouring the room for something more substantial than the towel that was wrapped around his waist, to cover himself with if he planned to go and find her, when the door from the corridor opened and Muira wandered into the bedroom. She was pushing a trunk and had an assortment of mans clothing tossed over one of her arms. She was looking down, manoeuvring the chest, so she didn’t immediately see him.
“Where the hell have you been?” Lachlan barked, more harshly than he’d intended, still baffled as to why he’d been worried in the first place, and rather unsettled by the indisputable rush of relief that he felt on finding that she was safe.
“I was just-” Muira began, but then she looked up, and froze, her eyes nearly popping out of her head.
Lachlan felt a throb pulse to life in his groin. He couldn’t remember ever being in this position before-when he was naked in front of a woman, then she was always naked too!
He felt exposed, he was exposed, save the towel wrapped around his waist, but there was something thrilling in Muira’s gaze as it flickered over his body. She didn’t seem able to look away, and Lachlan couldn’t help but feel a swell of satisfaction as her eyes remained transfixed on his body.
“I was just-” Muira stammered again.
She sounded breathless, which Lachlan initially took to be a good sign, or his pride did at any rate. He wasn’t ready to take Muira into his bed, not after what she’d done, not after what she’d been through either, but he would need to one day if he was to father a child, and he didn’t see that it had to be an unpleasant experience.
But then he wondered if he was misreading her reaction.
Despite what Tavish had done to her, it didn’t necessarily stand to reason that she’d ever seen a naked man before (to be fair, she wasn’t seeing one now, but Lachlan was feeling inexplicably generous all of a sudden) and if she had then the sight couldn’t possibly be connected with any pleasant memories.
A Beautiful Lie (The Camaraes) Page 4
